She was pacing restlessly up and down the floor, a picture of nervous suffering painful to gaze upon. Pausing in the center of the room, her white, jeweled fingers locked together as if in pain, she looked at him with burning eyes, crying wildly:
“Oh, Arthur, how can I rest, how can I sleep? He is dying, and I—I am full of doubt and terror! Awakened conscience daunts me. Have I wronged him or not? Is he innocent, or is he guilty?”
“Mother you heard him swear to his innocence by all his hopes of heaven!”
“He swore to it before, Arthur, on the day when I sued him for divorce. He came to me swearing his innocence, pleading for mercy. I turned from him in anger, refusing to believe him, scorning all his prayers.”
“How could you be so hard, mother?”
“I was mad with wounded love and jealousy. I had let that fiendish girl destroy, with cunning arts, all my faith in him. Besides, my father was against him. He feared he had married me for my wealth alone.”
“Poor mother, how you were tortured! No wonder you made such a fatal mistake.”
“Arthur, Arthur,” her voice rang out wildly, “you believe that it was a mistake?”
He came up to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her earnestly, tenderly.
“Mother, must I tell you frankly what I believe, what I have believed in my soul ever since my first interview with my father, that day in Washington?”